I wanted my website to reflect the personality of both me and my business. Elegant yet natural (yes, I am both these things… haha!), informative and professional. I couldn’t be happier with it and I hope you’ll take visit over there too… www.tamarakuzminski.com

During these trips, I often don’t get a huge amount of time to make my own landscape images as I am helping everyone else. But on the first morning, a few of us got up early to photograph the sunrise. Of course, that never happened, due to the big grey clouds continuously covering the sky, but where the lake had flooded into the garden, trees and plants were poking their heads out of the water.

We woke up the next morning to photograph at dawn again, but by then the plants were all completely submerged. Only the trees were left with their tall trunks above the surface.

Despite the awful forecast, we did actually get brief glimpses of sun and rainbows during the first day, but after that the forecast came true and it was pretty much non-stop rain. On the final day, after spending the morning sheltering from the rain, we returned back to the house we were staying in to discover the car park 2-feet under Derwent Water and the cars well and truly sinking.

A frantic few hours followed with a group of us wading up to our bottoms in the cold flood water, pushing the cars to relative safety. One had a fatal injury (couldn’t start the engine even after it had been rescued) and one had to be abandoned to fend off the floods by itself as we couldn’t release the handbreak. I was one of the fortunates as for some reason I had moved my car out of harm’s way earlier that morning (although I am feeling a small amount of survivor’s guilt over this).

I took a few photographs on the final morning, while waiting for the water to recede enough to make it back over the road bridge (as at this point we were trapped in the village with no way out) but as they were taken with my Hasselblad, I am still waiting for the film back from the lab. But here’s one of the back garden that I took from the safety of the conservatory on my iPhone.

All that wading in cold flood water has now taken it’s toll though as I have caught a bug of some description. I will survive, but I’m keeping a low profile and catching up on processing and album building while I recover. So please excuse the croaky voice if you call….

The alarm clock woke me up just over an hour before sunrise. Fortunately, it was a very respectable 6:45am. The room was still dark and I couldn’t see any indication of the rising sun through the crack I had left between the curtains. But I convinced myself out of bed and pulled them back. It was very foggy outside. Damn. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was there with a couple of other photographer friends, and we had all planned to meet at 7am, then I probably would have just gone back to bed. But I wasn’t sure what my friends had decided and I didn’t want to be the one who seemed like a fair-weather photographer, so I got dressed and knocked on their door.

It was very miserable outside and difficult to believe that we’d make a single image in the fog as we walked down the steep road in Robin Hood’s Bay down to the beach. We knew that the tide would be on its way out, leaving a pristine beach in its wake, but when we arrived at the water’s edge, it was higher than we had thought it would be. We could still get onto the sand, but there were only a few metres between the breakwall and the waves.

My friends immediately got their cameras out, but I was having difficulty getting inspired. There were no vistas to be seen and there was not much grabbing my attention in the foreground amongst the few rocks and small tidal pools. Everything was a dull and dreary grey due to the fog. The tide was moving out at quite a pace and as more was becoming revealed to us on the shoreline, slowly I was finding patterns and rocks that were interesting enough for me to start clicking the shutter.

When all of a sudden I turned around and saw that the fog was beginning to lift in the distance, exposing the tops of the cliffs across the bay. Things started moving really quickly now as the fog swirled around and changed every second. Quite often with landscape photography, you can work at a snail’s pace. Nothing much is changing and you can really spend your time thinking, focusing and waiting to get the image right. But then suddenly something happens and you have to crank up 10 gears and switch into autopilot as you see opportunities unfolding and disappearing in front of you within seconds and you don’t have the luxury of contemplation. Today was one of those mornings of the two extremes. Perhaps surprisingly, both are satisfying, although I wouldn’t want to be working at 100mph all the time, not least because it’s during the slow considered photography that you can really learn and put your thoughts into practice. But you can sometimes surprise yourself at what you manage to record on film during that manic phase simply because you didn’t have the time to fully take it in and register it at the time.

The scene in front of us changed so much during that last hour or so. The sun rose above the horizon, turning everything a rich purple, the fog slowly evaporated away, leaving a clear and beautiful day, completely different to that which we woke up to. And to think how close I was to just rolling over and going back to sleep. I will remember this morning each time I struggle to convince myself out of bed.

If you didn’t manage to get down there today, then the exhibition is still on display until Saturday 7th March, so I hope you will visit before it finishes. The exhibition is being held at Hitchin Museum and Art Gallery in Paynes Park in Hitchin, Hertfordshire.

The irony of photographing a fleeting moment is that the actual event is extremely transitory, lasting possibly only a fraction of a second in some cases. Yet the time spent planning and waiting for the right moment, where all things combine perfectly can last many hours, sometimes days, possibly even years. Potentially having to return to the same location over and over in order for events to culminate in that one brief moment of wonder, and then for the next, to be over, never to return or to repeat itself in exactly the same way.

As well as viewing my photographs, you can also meet me and talk about my photography on Saturday 7 February and Monday 16 February from 10am.

You can visit the exhibition at:

Hitchin Museum and Art Gallery
Paynes Park
Hitchin
Hertfordshire
SG5 1EH

Tel: 01462 434476

We soon turned onto a bridle path that steeply took us to a plateau near the top of Twistleton Scar, and once on top, I felt the excitement building. I was starting to see photographs everywhere I looked. The soft light was ideal for the limestone pavement with its clints and grikes, so that even down the sides of the deep fissures there was a little light, enough to record some detail on the film, instead of harsh shadows caused by the directional light of a sunny day. The occasional tree growing in between the limestone showed how harsh conditions could be up there. Often they were bent and severely windblown, shaped by the strong westerlies that frequently whip across the summit.

Once on top, we slowly split away from each other, every photographer consumed in their own little world, spreading out over the plateau, all of us being drawn to our own view, rock or wall. We photographed happily for a while until gradually the wind started to pick up and it became decidedly chillier as the distant view towards Ingleton became obscured by a passing storm. Unsure of which way it was heading, and very conscious of the fact that we were very exposed up on the top of the hill, we began making our way back towards each other again, knowing that we would be safer closer together as part of a group instead of spread wide and alone across the exposed hill. We were keeping an eye on the clouds to try to work out the direction that the storm was moving in and for several minutes we all just stood there, huddled together, hats drawn over our ears and collars pulled up protecting our faces. Which way was the storm moving? Should we start heading down already? Or can we risk staying up on top for a while longer? Was it actually going to snow? None of us were totally sure of the answers.

But as we watched and waited, it became apparent that the storm cloud was not heading in our direction, but was instead bearing off towards Ingeleborough. We would possibly catch the edge of it, but it wasn’t going to turn into a full-blown storm, so we picked up our tripods again and went back to our photography.

The next time I looked up, the cloud had completely obscured Ingleborough. But as I stood there looking at it, it starting to lift and swirl around. The summit of the mountain peaked through the cloud and suddenly I picked up my tripod and ran across the grass trying to find something I could use as a foreground. I didn’t have much time to think, and I was partly working on instinct, because I knew that the swirling cloud was not going be long lived. I headed straight for a line of some limestone pavement that served as a lead in to the frame and to Ingleborough in the distance, quickly metered off the rock, added an ND grad filter, glanced around the frame edge to double-check the composition, and then stopped to take a breathe. I wanted the cloud to be swirling around Ingleborough but I didn’t want too much of it to obscure the mountain nor not enough cloud, and it was changing every second. I knew I might not get a second chance, so wanted to make it count, but also couldn’t wait too long. Almost there…. almost…. click. Then before I knew it, the cloud was all gone. One moment, one chance, one picture.

When I started planning my trip to the Pembrokeshire coast in the south-west of Wales, one of my top locations to visit was Strumble Head. On the map, this location looked perfect. The coast here faces north, so the sun would be setting out to sea behind the lighthouse at this time of year. And I hoped that there would be a profusion of the famous thrift to complement the scene in the foreground.

On my first evening in the area, the light looked very promising so I decided to visit this much anticipated lighthouse. It was reasonably cloudy, but there were enough breaks to enable the setting sun to shine through the gaps. Although a bank of cloud at the horizon would block the sun lower down in the sky, the golden hues of early evening could still be captured. I reckoned that I still had a couple of hours before the sun would fall behind the bank of cloud, and there was always the chance that by then it might have broken up or moved away anyway. So as I parked my car in the small lay-by beside the lighthouse, I could feel the excitement building.

There’s always an instinct, when you see light so beautiful, to quickly get out your camera and start shooting straight away. But I knew that there was no real hurry, so decided to take a walk around the lighthouse and get a feel for the place, and think about my composition. To one side of the lighthouse was a bay surrounded by dark cliffs. Wild flowers were blooming on the cliff tops and it was an enchanting scene. But one side of the bay was in dark shadow that the camera wouldn’t have been able to record, and neutral density graduate filters would have been tricky to use. So I walked round to the other side of the lighthouse to see if anything else would present itself to me and instantly knew that here was my image. The lighthouse was standing out on the top of the rugged cliff with the zigzag of the rocks in middle distance leading back to the lighthouse. But I really wanted some of the beautiful pink flowers of the thrift to be adorning the foreground too. There were several small groups of the flowers growing on the grass in the foreground, but it was nearing mid-June and a lot of them were already past their best. I must have spent about an hour searching for the perfect bunch, which were pink enough and also positioned in such a way to be prominent in the foreground and back-lit with the setting sun.

I knew before I even pressed the shutter that I would be happy with the images. Barring any technical mistakes, but I had run through and double-checked everything in my mind to be sufficiently sure that the exposure would be fine. Just standing at the scene, hypnotised by the four flash pattern of the lighthouse’s light, I was sure that these images would be keepers and my love affair with the lighthouse was still alive and strong.

I had been to the location before, almost three years ago during my first trip to the island. I was enchanted by the place then and although that time we were there in time for the sunset, we were treated instead to rain showers and a menacing sky. Conditions that, despite having us running to and from the car each time the heavens opened, produced some atmospheric photographs and unforgettable memories. The place definitely got under my skin that evening. Although in my mind I think I was still longing for my never had sunset shot and we definitely weren’t going to get that today.

I tried to put my negative thoughts to the back of my mind. If I arrived with a preconceived notion that I would not be able to see any photographs, then it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy and the day would be wasted. I would spend my time there feeling frustrated and anxious, and not make a single image that really communicated the emotion I felt about the place. But I need not have worried, because as soon as we pulled into the car park, my excitement at being back again overwhelmed me and I eagerly ran up the path towards the stones.

Obviously, the vista was not going to work on a day like this, so I decided to focus on recording the details. The stones at Callanish are made of Lewisian gneiss, a beautifully ancient rock that over the aeons has been bent and folded, creating fascinating patterns in the banding. But I was in no hurry to just point my camera at the first rock I could find. So I took my time, took in the scene and the atmosphere. I walked around with my eyes open and my mind receptive, until I found my image.

Eventually, I came across a rock that had a large crack running diagonally across it near its base. The crack was on the shady side of the standing stone, which meant that there would be no harsh shadows from any bumps and grooves on the stone’s surface. I composed the crack so that there was a sense of balance and harmony within the composition yet at the same time recording the elemental rawness of the rock, its texture and the lichens growing on it.

Happy that I had made an image, I relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine.

When I woke up the following morning, however, conditions were not any better. Although instead of the driving snow from the day before, there was almost no wind but thick hill fog. So thick in fact, that it was only with some serious concentrating could you make out the outlines of the bases of the mountains. But as I sat eating my breakfast and gazing out of the window, I started to believe that the cloud was lifting. Only slightly, just shifting in places. So slowly a ridge would became more visible and then slowly disappear into the murk again. But it was enough to give me hope.

I decided that while conditions were less than perfect (and knew from the Met Office forecast that the fog was widespread across the region), venturing too far away from my base would be a waste of energy, so I decided to stay within Glencoe and watch what happened with everyone’s favourite mountain – Buachaille Etive Mor.

Buachaille Etive Mor is a truly inspiring and awesome mountain. It really does deserve its place in the hearts of the millions who have found themselves travelling along the A82. Its wonderfully imposing triangular presence announces your entry into Glencoe as you drive through Rannoch Moor to the southeast. However, because of its beauty, and its ease of access from the side of the road, every man and his dog has made or taken a photograph of the mountain already. There are even conveniently placed stopping bays located around it for those not willing to do more than wind down a window or stand just outside the car door to get their photograph. For those who want to take a bit more trouble for their art, there’s the small parking area just before the bridge on the Glen Etive road. From there it’s simply a skip across the road and you find yourself at a waterfall which graces the foreground of a thousand other photographs. The river also continues its way around and in front of the mountain, for more foreground interest, and there’s even a well-trodden path made by endless streams of photographers to guide you round.

Now it may sound like I’m criticising people, but I actually say it with my tongue very firmly in my cheek. For I myself am guilty of all three situations mentioned (the snapshot from the car, a more composed view from the waterfall, and for adding my footprints to the path by the river). The reason it has become a bit of a cliché is because it is simply one of the most breathtakingly beautiful views in the country.

Once breakfast was finished, I picked up my camera bag and headed to the aforementioned river. The clouds were definitely doing something. Although they were still very low, blocking most of the mountains from view, the occasional blue patch of sky was now making its appearance, and disappearance, at semi-regular intervals. Even though I couldn’t see Buachaille Etive Mor itself, I knew where it would be once it decided to show itself, and with this in mind, starting along the river on the search for something that would tie the picture together from foreground to background. As I was walking, suddenly about half of the mountain became visible. I knew that I either had to quickly make an exposure there and then or risk the cloud coming back again, but I hadn’t found what I was after from the river and hoped that because the mountain had shown itself once, it would do so again.

I was glad I had my wellies on when I eventually located the part of the river I was going to use as my foreground. Setting up my tripod mid-stream, I waited. Then waited some more. I could see the clouds swirling and evaporating on the mountain to the left, but there seemed to be no change on Buachaille Etive Mor. Despite wearing two pairs of socks, my toes were beginning to feel the cold of the river filled with snowmelt, but I could also tell that when the cloud decided to part and show the mountain, I would have to act quickly to get the kind of view I was after, so standing on the bank was not an option. Eventually a small part of the mountain decided to present itself to those watching. It seemed to take forever for the gap to become larger, as I waited, finger on the cable release trigger for just the right moment. I wanted the summit to be on view so that even without most of the mountain showing you would get a feeling of completeness, as even without the rest being visible, you could extrapolate because you knew where the pinnacle was. I stood in the river until my feet went numb, when the gap showed signs of closing in on itself again. I realised that if I didn’t make the picture now, I probably wouldn’t make one at all that morning. So I pressed the trigger.

The problem with clichés is that it’s very hard to make a photograph of it that’s really yours. That says something about the way you were feeling at that time, at that location; instead of it just being a copy of a hundred other pictures you have already seen. I may not have achieved my goal on this visit, but it’s always nice to have a work in progress at such a beautiful location, and therefore a reason to revisit.